The Flight to the Desert
by reader304
Summary: Obi-Wan flees Polis Massa with a newborn boy. Now, he must get the child to safety while dealing with his own grief. A series of moments from Obi-Wan's point of view as he makes his way to the Lars homestead in the aftermath of Anakin's fall.
1. Chapter 1

**This work, as the website's url suggests, is a work of fan fiction and is not being used for profit.**

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Once, when he was still a padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi went to a world he had never since revisited. For reasons he no longer quite recalled, Qui-Gon Jinn had asked him to spend all day in an outdoor bazaar, making small purchases and listening to the street gossip. After hours of walking, he rested against a shaded wall with a piece of fruit in his hand and listened to a storyteller recite a legend to a crowd of gathered children. In the story, a beautiful princess was forced to marry an ugly and cruel general who had served her father well in war. When she was with child, the ugly husband threatened to kill her if she didn't bear him a son. After the child was born a girl, she hid the baby in a drawer and pretended to still be pregnant for an entire month, buying time for a messenger to reach her true love—a poor but virtuous soldier—and for him to come riding to her rescue.

As a teenager, he could remember thinking that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He'd taken his share of turns helping out in crèches at the Temple, and he knew just how obvious a baby's presence would be, even in a palace. The noise, the smell, the constant need for attention—that cruel husband would have known he was father to a baby girl before her first day was over. _Besides which, what's the moral here? Love conquers all, but only if you're willing to deceive your spouse?_

Now, as he laid a sleeping infant into a makeshift cradle on a tiny ship bound for the Outer Rim, Obi-Wan realized the true message of the story: _People only see what they want to see._

 _I hope I remembered to tip that storyteller._


	2. Chapter 2

Three days into the journey to Tatooine, I finally admit something to myself. _I saw them kiss on Geonosis._

Anakin never made a secret of his crush on Padmé. Perhaps he never even tried. When he was a teenager, I thought, _Padawan learners have crushes on non-Jedi acquaintances all the time_. _It's part of growing up. He'll get over her._

But Anakin Skywalker was not just any normal child. A decade of training, countless adventures, innumerable friends all over the galaxy, and still whenever news of Nabooan politics reached our ears, my padawan turned into a love-struck boy all over again.

In a way it was a relief when duty brought us back into the Senator's life. _Let him see her as a real person, not as the picture his nine-year-old mind took. It'll shock some sense into him,_ I thought.

Then the two of them got sent off alone on a lovely, private, lake retreat while I literally flew off the star charts. _You've trained him as well as you could. You must trust his self-control_ , I tried to tell myself. But that was a lie. Self-control was Anakin's weakness. I knew that. I'd seen it. It was a fault I had meditated on for hours in search of a solution. If anything, giving my padawan freedom and privacy and Padmé's company was a test, not a gesture of trust. But I made myself believe, _he'll be fine. Even if he falters, it's not like a senator's going to throw away her career for a teenaged Jedi_.

I wonder now, _was every thought I had for that entire year a frantic self-justification?_

When we met again on Geonosis, three years ago, my padawan had failed the test. When Senator Padmé Amidala rushed into that horrible cave, threw her arms around the wounded Anakin, and kissed him in full view of Master Yoda, me, and force knows how many clone troopers—well, that was the moment when the situation could no longer be ignored. _At least it should have been. Because I_ _saw_ _. I_ _knew._

Yet so many people around me counseled patience, understanding, forgiveness for youthful indiscretion. Even Master Yoda said, "This weakness, we have seen before. Even in a young padawan named Obi-wan, once, hahaha!" _I was never this bad, was I?_ "Their own strange charms, women of all species have. Sometimes, indeed, we turn a blind eye when padawan slip, do we not?"

In the end, I let Anakin accompany the senator home, hoping that he'd have time to say his goodbyes and get over her. He came back on time, he stopped talking about her. I tried to believe that plan had worked.

Now that I'm alone on a spacecraft with Padmé and Anakin's newborn son, now that my Order is reduced to ashes and my Republic is in ruins, I am forced to be honest with myself for the first time in years. _I knew he stopped flirting with women we met on missions. I knew he didn't spend every night in his own bed when we were home._

 _But I wasn't a constant presence in the Temple either. I never was._ Especially not once the war began, and sleeping became a difficult task. The Temple was just too quiet and the bed too soft. There was a nightclub nearby where the bartender knew my name but never used it, and there were enough willing females around to make sure no one ever went lonely. I never saw Anakin there, but I thought—well, I hoped—that Anakin was just at a different club, on a different street.

 _If I'd wanted the truth, I could have followed him, or waited near Padmé's apartment, or just reached out through the Force to sense what he was doing. But was it so wrong not to want to know? I didn't want to disgrace my padawan, my best friend, my brother. I could have forced him to stand trial and be expelled, but I didn't_ _want_ _to._ We were at war, and short-handed. I decided loyalty was worth more than principle. Besides which, I thought, _Anakin is supposed to be the Chosen One. I don't want to know if he's doing something wrong._

Also, now that I'm being honest with myself, I also remember thinking, _I don't want to know that I failed in training him. I don't want to be remembered as the man who defied the Council and then raised the kind of Jedi who can lose himself to love so easily._

 _What a coward I was_.

A baby's wailing reaches my ears. With a start, I realize I've been sitting in the same chair for two standard hours. Lately I've been unable to stop my mind wandering while my body sits still and develops cramps. _If it weren't for the baby crying periodically, I could just sink into a chair and never stir again._

I push myself to my feet.


	3. Chapter 3

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I reach for the bottle and the powder that they gave me on Polis Massa. _Rip open the package. Mix with warm-but-not-hot water. Pour into bottle. Attach rubber nipple. You're getting better at this._ The medic droids gave me a holovid on how to fix the formula, but after three days of feedings every two standard hours, I don't have to play it every time anymore. _And talk to the baby. Babies need to hear language. Even when it's not entirely clear what you should say to them._

"I've got your lunch for you, kid," I say haltingly as I lift the child. "I bet you're hungry, that's why you're crying, right?" I can sense that is the problem, of course. "Don't worry, I've got your bottle right here." I slip the teat into his mouth.

"You're so tiny." It strikes me every time I lift him. In the crèche we never had true newborns, though some Force-sensitive infants are – _were_ – discovered as young as nine months. Nine-month-olds are heavy and squirmy, they'll launch right out of your arms if you don't know how to hold them. This one squirms, but there's no strength in his limbs yet. Keeping my grip is as easy as holding a bucket by the handle.

 _Keep talking,_ I remind myself, and I say, "Maybe the storyteller who spun that tale was thinking that tiny things are easy to hide? You wouldn't be easy to hide, little boy. If nothing else, I think you're too noisy."

Then it hits me. "But they _were_ hiding you. Your mother was, I mean. She was hiding you and your sister both." _Not very well._ "She hid you under impractically large outfits. But people still asked questions. Senator Padmé Amidala never had an ounce of spare flesh on her frame before she was pregnant with you. Your mother was a very beautiful woman." My eyes sting a little bit, remembering the bright and resourceful politician and soldier whom I once considered a friend. "When she started canceling public appearances and coming out in looser and looser outfits, when she stopped going on off-world missions, there were whispers. Even I heard them, and I was trying very hard to be deaf. I even went to see her, thinking that she might want to tell me what was going on." _She didn't. She was a cool liar, too. Most politicians are._

He's drunk down to the first notch on the bottle, so I shift him upright and pat his back. His little round belly fits in my hand like a ball of soft cloth. "The official news reported that the senator wasn't feeling well. Less reputable sources speculated on who your father was. There were a surprising number of candidates suggested. I heard rumor some bookies were taking bets." _Oh how I hoped it was the captain of her guards, or a fellow senator, or a random passerby._

The baby burps, and I lay him back down to offer him the bottle again. I look at his tiny face. He was born wrinkly and squished-up, but I'm starting to see some of his father in him. Those eyes . . . some infants' eyes change color, but I know that these won't. "I wonder if anyone bet on him. The odds must have been pretty long. If any Coruscant bookkeepers were here to see you, they'd be forced to pay out."

I laugh at the thought but it only brings the images back. _His eyes turning yellow. His hair, burning. His legs flipping away. His screams as he died. Oh, Force, his screams._ Tears drip down and splash on my hand, on the baby blanket, on his tiny cheek.

When he's done eating, I manage to say, "Two more days to Tatooine." I set him in his crate and turn down the lights.


	4. Chapter 4

It has been fifteen standard years since I landed on the outskirts of Mos Eisley with a banished queen and her handmaids, a handful of droids and Naboo guards, my master Qui-Gon, and a stray Gungan we'd picked up along the way. Fifteen standard years since I left with all those things plus a child of nine, with Darth Maul hot on our heels.

This time, I land in the port. I've decided on a cover story, and it does not include a need to hide.

"Please state your surname," the port droid asks.

"Kenobi." _Oops._ That just slipped out, from force of habit.

"Please state your given name."

"Ben. My name is Ben." _At least I remembered that part._

"Please state the intended duration of your stay."

"A standard week." _Indefinite._

The droid has me check my information on a readout, and sends me on my way with one last, "Cause no trouble."

 _We'll see about that._

I remember every detail of our last trip to Tatooine, every one that I saw and every one that Qui-Gon and Anakin told me later. The biggest standout was the frantic search for funds. So this time, before I left Polis Massa, I turned all of my credits into medical supplies and scrap metal—easy to trade, harder to trace.

After stopping at the scrap dealer I don't know exactly where I'm going, but it's not too hard to find the place. Spaceports can always be relied on for a generous supply of three things: contraband, liquor, and whores.

"Do you have any human mothers?" I ask the bored Rodian pimp that I find in front of a dilapidated one-story brothel. _Please let that be a common enough fetish that he won't ask questions._

My Rodian is rusty, but I recognize the words "yes" and "half a duggat per standard hour."

"I need her services for six standard hours. And I need her to come with me." That gets his attention. _Unfortunately._ He opens his mouth and I know he's about to refuse.

I press a thought into his mind with a wave of my hand. "You don't need to ask questions. The woman can come with me."

His mind is stronger than I expect. _Or maybe I'm too exhausted to concentrate._ He says, "The woman can go with you. But how do I know you'll bring her back?"

I wave my hand again. "She'll be returned on schedule."

"You'll return her on schedule. This will cost you extra, though."

Wave. "Three duggats for six standard hours will suffice." _I'm a Jedi Master, and a war hero, and I'm using the Force to negotiate with a pimp. Force, let this be the right thing._

The Rodian gives up the battle. "Three duggats. One now, two after," he says in Standard, as he goes to the door and shouts. "Lyda! Get out here!"

The woman who comes in answer to his call is young, no older than Anakin is— _was._ She has blonde hair, cut as short as a man's, and a face that is very carefully making no expression at all. The pimp tells her something in Rodian, and I sense a flash of fear.

I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way. "Lyda, is it? You're coming to my ship for the day. It's only a short walk." She doesn't relax, doesn't lift her eyes off the dusty ground, but she does follow me.

"No hurting her where it shows!" the pimp helpfully suggests as I lead Lyda away.


	5. Chapter 5

As we step into the ship (blessedly cool, after the oppressive heat outside), I can sense Lyda is getting more and more frightened. "I'm not going to hurt you," I blurt out.

She looks up guiltily and I can feel she's ashamed and terrified of _something_ , something that happens to women who let fear show. "I did not think you were going to. This is just an unusual thing, being allowed to leave the, uh, the house like this," she babbles.

I understand now. _He owns her. I'm renting a slave._ For a fleeting moment, I consider sending her back. _No, she might get in trouble for failing to earn money. Too late to retreat now._

 _At least I can try to reassure her._ "You don't have to pretend you didn't assume the worst when you heard I was taking you with me," I say in what I hope is a soothing tone, "But I didn't bring you here to do anything untoward, I promise. What I need is much more mundane . . ." _You're losing her completely._ "Oh here, let me show you." I pick up the blanket-lined crate and bring it over so she can see. "I need you to watch this little boy for a few hours while I conduct my business."

 _There's nothing like an infant for breaking the tension between strangers_. Lyda's face softens immediately and I feel her fear draining away. "Oh, he's so sweet," she says, "Is he your son?"

"Yes," I say quickly, maybe a little too quickly, but she doesn't doubt me. "This is why I hired you. The man at your, uh, house said you have children."

"Had," she says softly. "Not anymore." Her sadness is too deep for tears or words.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say. "Will you be all right to babysit? It's only for about six standard hours. I have a lot of matters to attend to and I didn't think I should take him outside in this heat."

"Where's your wife?" Lyda asks.

"She died," I say, and I don't have to fake sadness. "Some kind of hemorrhage." _Or at least that's what Artoo's search of the medical records turned up, after they fed us that line about will to live._ "We were on a remote world when she went into labor. I got her to an asteroid with medical facilities, but . . . there was nothing they could do."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Lyda says, "I hope in time you can come to see the part of her that's in her son." She's genuinely trying to comfort, but the effort is wasted on me. Padmé's death isn't the worst grief I'm carrying right now, not by a long shot.

I set the crate down and pull out the pack I've prepared. "These are the formula packets, instructions included. There's clean nappies and powder in here. You can feed him whenever he wakes up, then every two standard hours, you know the usual schedules. He's only a week old so he doesn't have much of a rhythm yet. I've been letting him sleep when he's tired but that's not often, as far as I can tell—"

"We'll be fine," Lyda interrupts, "He's safe with me. What's his name?"

It takes me a long moment to process that question. I haven't called him by a name this week. I haven't called him anything. _Force, have I truly been so wrapped up in my own despair that I forgot to name this child?_ _What was it Padmé called him?_ "Luke," I say, "His name is Luke."

Lyda nods. "And, your name?"

"Ben," I say firmly. "Ben Kenobi." I feel like a liar. _But if that's my alias, I must get used to saying it._

"May the Force be with you, Ben Kenobi," Lyda says.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time I reach the Lars homestead the twin noonday suns are beating down. Sweat is pouring off me. The eopie I bought is strong, but slow. _If only I could afford a speeder._ But if I'm going down that route, _if only I wasn't here at all_ will be my next thought.

I dismount, approach the single visible dome, and sound the door signal. No one answers. _I should have sent a message ahead. But what was I supposed to say? 'Hello, you don't know me and I'm pretending to be dead anyway, but I need you to adopt this baby?' That is not a conversation I want any transmission monitors to overhear._ I sound the door signal again, and this time someone does come—a young woman with light brown hair and blue eyes, slightly disheveled, with a nervous smile on her lips.

"I'm sorry that I took so long. I was all the way down in the storeroom. Can I help you?" she says.

I think back to what little Anakin told me about his step-family. Were there any daughters? _I only remember him mentioning Cliegg and Owen. Don't tell me I'm lost._ "Is this the Lars homestead? I'm looking for Cliegg Lars."

The woman frowns slightly. "You're in the right place. But I'm sorry to say that my father-in-law died last year."

 _A wife. Is that going to make this easier or harder?_ "I'm sorry to hear that. Is Owen Lars here? Please, it's important that I speak to him."

She considers me for a moment. I don't blame her for being suspicious, but I'm not sure what I could say that would make this conversation less strange. _Did I even introduce myself yet?_ Finally, she says, "My husband is working right now, but I can try to get him on the commlink. What did you say your name was?"

It's a little easier to say "Ben Kenobi" this time.

"I'm Beru Lars. Come on in while I call Owen. Say, are you any relation to Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Startled, I ask, "Where did you hear that name?"

Beru pours me a cup of something blue. "The last time Anakin and Padmé were here, they left in a big hurry to rescue someone named Obi-Wan Kenobi."

 _Of course. For the Lars family, that visit and Shmi's death were a huge event. For me, they were just the prologue to the Clone Wars._

"There's a lot to explain. Do you mind if I wait until your husband is home?" I ask. "I'd . . . really rather not have to repeat this twice." _It's a horrible enough story to tell once._


	7. Chapter 7

Once I've explained everything I know about Anakin and Padmé, once I've told them of his fall and his murders and her death, once I've shown a picture of Anakin and Padmé's son and asked them to take him in, once all of that is done, they send me to wait in the garage while they discuss what to do.

I sit on a crate and I meditate as best I can. _This is a small house. Spare. Covered in sand._ I glance again at the color of the walls. _Possibly made of sand. What kind of home is this for a child?_

Suddenly I hear a voice that I haven't heard in nearly thirteen years, a voice that's as familiar to me as a mother's is to most people. The voice says, _this will be a loving home for Luke._

"Qui-Gon," I whisper. "Yoda was right. You're still with me."

The same voice, but a hint of amusement: _much as the Force is._

Before I can say more, I realize Beru Lars is standing before me. "My apologies," I say quickly as I stand up, "I was lost in thought."

She smiles at me. "I don't blame you. You've had a long journey, and a harrowing time before it. I don't even know how you're still holding yourself together." She pulls over a second crate and sits. "Owen is outside taking care of your eopie and pretending to clean something. He always needs to take some time to think everything over before he makes a decision, even a small decision. And this is one large decision you've brought before us."

I sit back down on the crate. "I appreciate that this is unexpected. But everything happened so fast—Anakin's fall, the collapse of the Jedi order, Padmé's death. It was all I could do to escape with the little boy, and I didn't know where to go except here. I know you only met Anakin once, but you're still the only family he has left." _Except me. And the way his life ended is proof that I wasn't a good father._

Beru looks at me for a moment. "I only met Anakin once, you're right," she says slowly, "But Padmé kept in touch."

I'm shocked, but I don't let myself react. _After everything that's happened in the last week, how is it still possible to be surprised by anything?_ I say the most neutral thing I can choke out, "How did she do that?"

"I got a transmission every few months, telling me what was happening in the galaxy at large. I heard all the news about the war. I knew that Anakin and Padmé got married." She pauses, trying to gauge my reaction. I hide my surprise at the word "married" as well as I can. How _in Qasak did they do that?_

"At first I wasn't sure why a Senator wanted to talk to a farmer's wife, but eventually I realized. She was living a lie to everyone—her friends, her parents, her own sister. I think she needed someone to know what was happening, and Force knows there's no one on Tatooine who cares what a Republican Senator and Jedi Knight may be doing between the sheets."

 _Padmé could trust this stranger with all her secrets, but she couldn't trust me._ That stings, yet I have a more important question. "Did . . . did you know about the baby?" _Bab_ _ **ies,**_ _but I can't say that out loud._

Beru actually blushes a little at the question. "Yes. She told me she was expecting almost seven months ago, before she'd even had a chance to tell Anakin. She called me up and she sounded terrified. I offered to help however I could, and then I asked when she was due."

The young woman takes a deep breath. "She had no idea, Ben. She hadn't seen a midwife, she was afraid to even try to seek one out. I told her she couldn't just ignore being pregnant, but she was terrified that her reputation would be ruined, that she'd lose her position, that her husband would be expelled from his order. It didn't make any sense to me," she says, "What kind of barbarians would have punished a pregnant woman? Why didn't she have anyone to care for her?" Her eyes narrow and I can feel the accusation behind those words, _why didn't you help her sooner?_

I feel the emotion streaming from her soul and I think, _it would be a frightening thing to see Beru Lars get truly angry._ Then, an idle thought: _that's probably a good trait in a mother._

"I didn't know about her and Anakin," I protest—I think I'll be using that excuse until I die. "But I—I should have. I should have helped her. I turned a blind eye to the whole situation, and now it's caused more grief than I can say." There are tears in my eyes again, and I'm not sure whether they're for my friends, my padawan, Padmé, her children, or myself.

Beru's moment of indignation is already passing over, I sense. _Patient and quick to forgive. This is a good woman I see before me._ She passes me a handkerchief and says, "Sorry. That was harsh. I'm sure that after the month you've had, you're counting the ways that you failed. But you've succeeded in one important way, too. You've protected Luke. You've brought him here to us." She stands, takes a step closer to me, and lays a hand on my shoulder. "For that, you have my gratitude."

I look up at her, surprised. "Have you decided to take him, then?"

Beru Lars shrugs her shoulders at me. "Owen will probably need to think some more before he makes his decision. But I made my decision half a year ago, when Padmé Amidala first told me she was pregnant. 'If she says the word,' I thought, 'that child becomes mine.' Bring Luke here when you're ready, Ben Kenobi, and I'll be the best mother to him I can be."


	8. Chapter 8

I'm sitting at the Lars kitchen table, halfway through a late lunch, when Owen Lars comes back inside. He embraces his wife and whispers something in her ear. I sense relief, joy, and pride, and I know what he said.

Beru leaves and I soon hear her rummaging around in another room. Owen pours himself a drink and sits down across from me. "Master Kenobi," he says, "I'm of two minds about what you're asking, and you deserve to know why." He takes a deep breath before the explanation.

"Three years ago, my stepmother was kidnapped by Tusken Raiders. Over two dozen of my neighbors died trying to rescue her from their abuse. My father lost a leg. But it was all fruitless." He takes a nervous gulp of his drink before continuing. "Then my long-lost stepbrother emerged from the sky with a lightsaber on his hip and a gorgeous woman on his arm. I loaned him my speeder, and the next day he returned with my stepmother's body, refusing to say how he found her or where. When we bathed her body for burial I saw how badly she'd been mistreated and, well, my only small comfort was that she didn't die alone.

"Anakin and Padmé left right after the funeral, leaving us behind with our grief. Three days later a hunter friend of mine came back from a raid with quite a story to tell. He said he'd come across a Sand People village, and decided to check it out in case my mother was there. What he found . . . it was so unbelievable that he took recordings of it all just to prove he wasn't imagining things." Owen looks shaken just from thinking about it and the horror pouring off his soul is enough to make me shudder.

"There were body parts everywhere. Impossible to know what belonged to which, but some were so small . . . every last creature in that camp had been slaughtered and ripped limb from limb. At first, I thought they'd been attacked by a Krayt dragon. Then my friend asked me if I ever saw a Krayt dragon bite so clean and straight. And he showed me that there was no blood. No blood anywhere. Dozens of corpses cut to pieces, and no blood. The edges looked charred, like they'd been set on fire." He swallows, hard. All I can think is, _Force, no, no, no._

"None of us had ever seen a lightsaber in action, but we knew their reputation. Cut like knives, burn like blasters. So it only took about ten standard minutes for me to realize who had butchered those Sand People. It was my stepbrother, Anakin Skywalker. Master Kenobi, I hated those savages for taking Shmi away from us, but if he had still been here when I realized that, I would've knocked him in the dust and called him a murderer."

I have to fight back tears. _Three years. Three years he was sliding into darkness, and I never knew because I never asked._ "If I had known this, he would have stood trial. I promise you, I would have made him face justice," I say, uselessly.

Owen looks at me, his features unreadable and his emotions suspicious. "Under whose laws, I wonder? Who in this galaxy cares if a Jedi Knight cuts up some semi-sentient savages on the Outer Rim?" I don't have an answer to that, mostly because I'm not sure if there was anything left to the Republic's values, even three years ago. The Jedi Council might have at least reprimanded Anakin, ordered him to meditate and do penance. Until they needed him.

Owen shakes his head at my silence. "None of that matters now. I never told my suspicious friends that the Jedi butcher was Anakin. I shrugged my shoulders and played dumb. I mourned for my stepmother. I comforted my father. I prayed that my stepbrother would never return to this world, so I wouldn't have to face him. And he didn't. But now," he leans forward and folds his hands on the table, "Now, you're telling me that he escalated from killing animals to murdering human children. You're telling me he joined the Sith. And you're showing me his secret illegitimate child, and you're asking if I'll adopt that boy as my own son. What can I say? What should I say?"

I fold my arms and wait for him to answer his own question. He looks away, towards the door. He runs a hand through his hair and I can see his jaw muscles clenching.

"I should say no. Yet all I can think is, Shmi Skywalker was a second mother to me," he says softly. "And I was her stepson, but she loved me as her own. If I loved her back—and I did—then I can't turn my back on her grandson." He takes a deep breath, blows it out. "Damn it all, we'll take him."

I knew he was coming to this, but it's a relief to hear it said. "Thank you," I answer.

Owen looks back to me as he stands up, and I stand up too. "This place doesn't earn much money," he says, a hint of worry and a whole lot of pride in his voice.

"But it's your home," I say, taking the words from his mouth.

"Yes," he says, hiding his surprise fairly well. "So it'll be Luke's home too. I'll teach him whatever I can about how to make his way in the galaxy. Whatever we have, we'll share with him. He'll be safe with us, as safe as I can keep him. And I'll show him right from wrong."

"I am not an expert," I say as I wrap my cloak back around me, "But I think those are essentially the goals of parenting." _Does my failure on the last point wipe out all my successes with the first three?_

Beru comes back into the kitchen. She's holding a rag, a pencil and a scrap of paper, and there's a bottle of something under one arm and a pile of clothes in the crook of her other elbow. "Owen, did you tell him yet?" she asks. Her husband nods. "Good," she says as she shoots a smile in my direction. "I found the cradle easily, and a box of your old baby clothes, but they need to be aired out. Do you have any rattles or toys anywhere?"

Owen shrugs. "If I do, I haven't seen them since I was an infant."

"Well, never mind. If they're in the storeroom, we'll find them eventually. Here, this is the beginnings of a list of supplies we need from Anchorhead." She hands him the scrap of paper and he looks it over, mouthing the words as he reads.

"Does a baby really need all this stuff?" he asks. I wonder whether he's asking her or me.

Beru ignores the question completely and says, "Ben, there's a lot to get ready here. When were you planning to come back with Luke? Because I don't know how soon I can get the place all fixed up. Absolutely everything needs washing, and nothing is baby-proofed."

"Baby-proofed?" Owen asks. Beru continues to ignore him, but I can't.

"Owen, have you ever taken care of a baby before?" I ask.

He actually chuckles a little bit at that, and I realize it's the first time I've seen him smile. "Do you see any babies around here? Whose baby would I have taken care of? No, Luke will be my first. But Beru here had two younger siblings, so she'll set me straight." He takes some of the odds and ends out of his wife's hands before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head.

I can't help but smile a little bit too. "To answer your question, Beru," I say, "It might be best if I came back tomorrow. I have things to take care of, selling a ship and arranging for lodgings. Maybe I should wait until the afternoon, to keep the baby out of the suns. And it'll be a two-hour trip . . . shall we say, sundown tomorrow?"

Beru tucks a stray hair behind her ear and nods, a relieved smile on her face. "That gives us a little time. Thank you."

"It's settled, then," Owen says. "Sunset tomorrow. I'm going to show Obi-W—I mean, Ben back to where his eopie is waiting. Then, honey, I think you'd better explain this list to me before I run off to Anchorhead and come back with nothing but a pile of junk."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the delays, etc. etc. I struggled a bit with this chapter. Your patience will now be rewarded.**

* * *

When I get back to Mos Eisley, one of the suns is already approaching the horizon. I check a chronometer I see outside a building, and the whole trip has only taken five and a half standard hours. _I guessed right when I hired Lyda, then. She'll get back on time. That's good. It's bad enough to rent a sex slave, and even worse to give her pimp a reason to hurt her._

As I board the ship, a snippet of song reaches my ears. It's familiar, somehow, and I pause for a moment to try to remember it. _Did we ever sing that lullaby in the crèche?_ I don't remember, and that upsets me more than it should. _If I forget it, the Temple will cease to exist for good and all._ Shaking the cobwebs away, I head into the tiny living quarters.

Lyda sees me and smiles. "Here's your daddy coming home. Can you say, 'Did your trip go well, Daddy?'" she asks the baby in a sing-song voice. She sets him down, and stands up, smoothing her flimsy skirt nervously.

"It was productive," I answer. I cross over and peek down at the crate. He's awake, but quiet, and a quick nudge with the Force satisfies me that he's comfortable. "How did you get along back here?"

"Oh, we were fine," she says in the same musical voice, with a hint of a smile on her lips. "Your son is just as calm as can be. He hardly even fussed at all, and took a nice long nap. I washed his blankets and nappies and sterilized the bottles while he was conked out." The baby must find her voice soothing; his little eyes are sliding shut.

"That was kind of you," I say, smiling to reassure her. "Thank you for looking after him so well. He's . . . very precious to me." _I hope that sounds sufficiently paternal._ "Anyway, I know you are expected back, so I won't keep you. Let me just get the money."

She doesn't protest, but as I count out the duggats, a wave of guilt comes over me. "Listen, Lyda . . . you've done good work here. Is there anything I can do to repay you? Is there anything you want?"

Lyda stares at me. _It's been a while since anyone asked her that, I suppose._ "I want what every slave wants," she says finally. "I want to be a free woman."

I look down at the money. _This has to support me for over a decade, possibly for the rest of my life,_ I argue, though I don't actually know who I'm talking to.

 _Greed is of the dark side,_ I can hear Yoda saying.

 _You didn't come here to free slaves,_ I remind myself.

 _Neither did I,_ Qui-Gon's voice reminds me. I reflexively turn to look for him, but of course there's no one there.

 _Freeing Anakin didn't work out very well,_ I think defensively.

 _Only because he grew up to be a greedy man._ I'm not sure if that was my own thought, or Qui-Gon's, and that feels very much like the dilemma of a madman.

 _Oh, frak it. I'm stuck on this planet until the child grows up. I will not spend the rest of my days hoarding coins. That is not the Jedi way._ "What would it take to make you free?" I ask.

She flushes and looks away. "They say I'm only worth two hundred duggats."

 _If I sell this ship tomorrow, it will bring fifteen thousand._ "Here," I say, pushing two handfuls of duggats across the table. "Take it. Do what you will."

She stares wonderingly at the coins. "They're real," I tell her.

"You are a gift from the heavens, Ben," she gushes as she starts tucking them into her pockets. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," I say. "If anyone asks, though, tell them I paid you for your silence. I'm a horrible pervert and you never want to talk about what we did again. Don't mention the baby. All right?"

"Whatever you say," she says, beaming. I could do a mind trick to make sure she forgets entirely, but I don't have to. Lyda is used to men paying her to keep secrets.

I lower the ramp for her. Before she leaves, she hesitates, and then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry about your wife, but your son has a good father," she says.

I'm not sure how to respond. "May the Force be with you," I say.

 _That was a futile gesture. There are still thousands of slaves. It won't make any difference to the economy of Tatooine_ , I think as she walks away.

 _But it has made all the difference in the universe to Lyda,_ Qui-Gon tells me. Not knowing how to answer that, I go back inside the ship.


	10. Chapter 10

The following afternoon, I walk through Senator Padme Amidala's personal shuttle for the last time. I carefully remove anything that can identify its previous owner. _Senator Amidala will be cremated on Naboo, after a brief illness on Coruscant. Her ship can't show up on Tatooine, or the lies we live with will all unravel._ It's just a ship, perfect for retrofitting to whatever purpose you see fit, just give me the money in cash and don't ask for registration, as I'd said in a shady marketplace that morning. Someone took the bait within a standard hour.

My meager possessions fit into a very small bag, while the baby's supplies fit into a slightly larger one. Laying the baby on one of the couches, I stuff both bags into the crate I've been using for a cradle. A brief search turns up the crate's lid underneath one of the sleeping bunks, and it fits with only minor shoving. Outside, I strap everything to my eopie. "You're an ugly animal," I say to him, "But you'll carry me a few hundred more kilometers, I think."

I carefully wrap the baby in the cleanest blanket I have, gently folding it so it will shade his little eyes from the twin suns. "I'm taking you on an adventure today. You haven't seen true natural daylight in your whole life," I say, in the sing-song tone I heard Lyda use with him. "I do hope you don't start screaming when you see it, because this place is going to be bright every day of your life. Bright and sandy." A memory stirs, and I add, "I hope you're less fixated on avoiding sand than your father."

With him tucked into my left arm, I descend the gangplank and let it retract behind us. No one is around, so I take a chance on using the Force to jump onto the eopie's back. _"How to mount a beast while carrying an infant" is not a subject they ever teach in schools._ Once I'm all settled and the baby seems comfortable, I turn the animal's head towards the road out of Mos Eisley.

Twenty minutes' ride beyond the outskirts of the spaceport, ground traffic thins out drastically. Pretty soon, the baby and I are the only beings left in sight.

I look down at the little bundle. His eyes are open, and I give him a smile. "Hello there," I murmur, just to fill some of the silence. "I'm your friend. I'm Ben Kenobi. And you're, well . . . your name is Luke." That brings up a thought: _Luke what? It won't be Lars, if your Uncle Owen's attitude is anything to go by. You're entitled to your mother's name, but a Naboo surname on Tatooine would attract attention._

Suddenly more serious, I add, "Your name is Luke Skywalker. I should have called you that from the beginning, but, well . . . maybe someday you'll hear the story of how you came into the universe, and you'll understand that this has been a difficult and chaotic time."

Without knowing why, I decide to keep talking. _I'll tell little Luke his story, this once, even if I never get to tell it truly ever again._ "Actually, there's quite a long story about how you came to be. Your mother was Padme Amidala Naberrie. She was one of the youngest elected queens in Naboo history. She was a diplomat and a brave warrior and she was kind to everyone. She brokered peace with the Gungans to take back her world. She was a senator, and she was fearless. Her only weakness was that she fell for your father, and that she never gave up on him." _In fact that's what got her killed. There's worse things to die for than loyalty, but I wish I could have saved her._

"Well, that's your mother. You had a father, too. Your father was Anakin Skywalker. He was inhumanly good at flying. If a thing had even basic antigravity properties, your father could pilot it. Once when he was eleven I jokingly asked him 'if I levitate that box, can you stand on top and steer by leaning?' He said, 'I'll try.'" I smile at the memory. "Anakin was generous to a fault, when he was a child. He stuck his neck out for people he had no reason to care about, repeatedly. He was a good kid and a good friend. I tried to be a good mentor to him."

Back in the early days of training, Yoda used to tell us younglings "do or do not, there is no try." _But sometimes trying is the best you can do. I was barely twenty-four, still a padawan, and Qui-Gon begged me to take care of raising a nine-year-old. What choices did I have?_

My left arm is growing sore, so I pass the reins from right to left and shift Luke's weight onto my right arm. "Anakin grew up," I tell Luke, "to be a mass of contradictions. He would still stick his neck out for strangers, but he could also fly into rages and hurt people." _Sand people, dismembered, pieces scattered in a gruesome tableau . . ._ "And he could be a very good fighter, but he hated rules, restrictions. He broke rules just to break them, I think, sometimes. Even ones that had very good reasons to exist. There never was a speeder fast enough for him, never a lightsaber durable enough to last in his care.

"I tried," and I have to clear my throat at the thought, "I tried to rein him in, to get him to focus, but I never managed it. His infractions were mostly minor and forgivable, though. All except for his obsession with your mother." _I shall never forgive him for that._ In the back of my mind I realize that I'm getting emotional, that I should get my thoughts under control. But I just don't.

"I'm sure if we had him here, he'd swear it was love. But I know what love is, and it's not chasing a woman when you know you can't be her partner in life. It's not faking a marriage with some pointless ceremony. It's not impregnating a Republican Senator when you know full well her career and reputation will be ruined when it comes out that she's unmarried and she can't even name the father publicly. That's obsession. It's—it's exploitation." I spit the word out. "Yes, he was using her. He wanted to possess her and still have his position and his life as a Jedi Knight.

"It's not like there weren't options, if he had bothered to explore them. If he had truly loved her, he could have left the Jedi order for her. Not many Jedi did that, but there were a few over the centuries. He could have been with her and raised you and your sister, but he didn't." _Did it even come up? Did she ask him to do that, when they fell in love? What did he do to her to make her risk her own position to save his?_

"I heard her ask him to run away with her, once. But he wasn't himself by then. We were on a world even hotter than this one, and he lost his temper much worse than he ever had. Anakin perverted the Force and used it to choke the life out of Padmé, then left her unconscious on the ground. He never even paused to check her pulse." _I did. In the end, I loved her better than he did._ There's something cruel in that. My throat is tight and sore, but I keep talking. I say, "I'm still not even sure how the three of us got to that point."

I truly can't stop now. Everything I've been wondering about for the past 9 standard days is spilling out, with no one but a newborn Luke to hear it. I've been distraught for days, and I'm finally letting myself feel it. "How blind was I that I couldn't see him getting swallowed by avarice? How did a woman like Padme Amidala give him such power over her? Why did she give up when I begged her not to? What did Chancellor Palpatine—or Emperor, or whatever he's calling himself now—what did he say to convince Anakin that slaughtering other sentient children was the right way to save his own? Why didn't Anakin sense the darkness in Palpatine? Why didn't the Council smell a trap? How did this happen?"

 _We're smarter than this._

 _Apparently not._

A quiet, grizzling cry comes from my right arm, and I realize that I've squeezed Luke too tightly. "Sorry, son, I'm sorry," I say, clearing my throat and returning to sing-song tones. "Your Uncle Ben is just talking about nothing. I'll never tell that nasty story again, not until you're a grown man, I promise, it'll be a solemn secret with me." I wipe the tears off my face with my left sleeve and I loosen my grip, just enough to let the swaying motion of the eopie soothe Luke.

When he's calm again, I revise the story for him. "Your name is Luke Skywalker. You had a grandmother, but she's joined the Force now. You had a grandfather, but he's one with the Force as well. Your parents are both dead." _I killed one of them personally._ "But you're alive. You have a sister, Leia Organa, I hope you'll meet her one day. She might grow up Force-sensitive. You will, too. I think. We had to test you both the very same day you were born, so it's hard to tell. Anyway, you have an aunt, Beru, and an uncle, Owen. We're going to see them now. They already love you so much. They'll be the best parents they can." _Oh, how_ _I hope they're better at parenting than I was._ "You have me, too. I'm your crazy uncle, Ben Kenobi. I'm harmless but strange. I'll protect you, son, as if you were my own."

I rein up the eopie for a moment, lift Luke's tiny body, and press a kiss on his head. "My own," I repeat.


	11. Chapter 11

When the Lars homestead comes in sight, Owen and Beru are outside. They're standing on a little ridge, hand in hand, watching the suns sink in the sky. They're also waiting for us _—for him._ I urge the eopie along, knowing that for expectant parents this will be the longest wait of their lives.

Beru hears me coming and hurries over to meet me as I carefully dismount. I hand Luke over to her. It seems as though I should say something, to give this moment some sort of ceremony, but there are no words.

Beru looks at Luke, at her nephew and adoptive son, and she has fallen in love already. She smiles at me, and then turns away to bring Luke to his uncle.

As I watch, Owen smiles at the baby and wraps an arm around his wife. The trio makes a perfect tableau: mother, father, son. Part of me says, _I've done my duty, I've brought Luke to his family,_ and I'm relieved that I have made this moment happen.

When I make my way to the Anchorhead guesthouse and engage a room for the night, when I lock the door behind me and sit on the bed, that's when I burst into tears.

 _Days ago I was General Kenobi. I had friends, Anakin, Ahsoka, Cody. I followed orders and I made battle plans and I did what I thought was right. Now I am no one, I have no one, and I lack any plans at all. All is lost. All because I was blind._

I sit there for hours and weep like a child, until I'm gasping for air and as thirsty as the sands. At first I'm crying for the Temple and the army and the life I've lost. Then I realize that the whole war was all a ruse, a plot to cement Palpatine's power. I realize that every system I thought I was rescuing from the Separatists is now in the hands of the Empire. For a time I'm crying over that. Eventually I remember Anakin Skywalker—not the Sith Lord I dismembered and left behind to die, but the human being he once was. The little boy who was so out of his element on Coruscant, at the temple, yet so determined not to show it. The desert-born child who was so terrified of rain that I seriously considered sending for a healer to sedate him during his first thunderstorm. The prodigy pilot who could fly a battleship better by accident than most men could on purpose. The general who teased "Snips" in every battle to keep her calm and never left a man (or astromech droid) behind. I think, _if he hadn't been a Jedi, he might actually have been a good father._ I think of him, and I sob until my lungs ache.

The Force alone knows how long I remain there, paralyzed by despair. I don't know whether I last ate yesterday, or the day before. I don't want to eat, I don't want to drink water. Everything smells like scorched flesh and everything tastes like ashes. I don't even want to sleep because I know Anakin will scream at me when I do. He'll be legless and in flames and still he'll have the strength to scream "I HATE YOU!" from beyond the grave. _My life from now until I die will be a hell of screaming nightmares._

The Force has been trying to tell me something from the moment I sat down, but I'm not listening. I want to shut it out forever. _It didn't warn me about any of this. It did nothing to stop this. I was its loyal servant and it abandoned me completely._

As long as I have strength to think that way, I can keep the Force silent and cry out my despair in peace. But as the hours pass, I start to realize that I'm too exhausted to keep that up. I haven't slept properly in over a week, I'm still recovering from multiple battles, and now I'm dehydrated. My body starts to slump, my aching head longing for a pillow. I haven't removed my robe or boots, but I'm falling asleep. _Maybe I won't wake up_ , I think, and that makes me feel unsettlingly hopeful.

Just before I lose consciousness, though my mind finally becomes quiet enough to hear. It's Qui-Gon that I hear. He says, _you must grieve, my son, but you must also live. Live for Luke, live for the chance to set things right, live for a dream of justice, or live for yourself, but live. You must, because it is not the will of the Force that you should die. At least, not yet. You will live._


	12. Chapter 12

And so, I lived.

That wasn't easy, at first. The food on this planet was bizarre. Chronic sunburn and dehydration plagued me. Everything I said to anyone, from my name to my occupation to what I thought about the weather, was a lie. I had to earn my own living, for the first time in my life. I had to stop being a Jedi, and that was the hardest thing of all.

Fortunately, there are always odd jobs to be had in agricultural communities, and I could lift many loads that would have taxed non-Force sensitives. I got by, swapping a day's labor for a night's lodging, hiding the fact that I had money saved, living on a pittance, moving constantly. But it was always obvious I came from off world, which meant it was always obvious I didn't want to be found. _If the Empire ever realizes I'm alive and decides it wants to find me, it will have an entire population of potential informants._ What to do, though? If I moved somewhere even more remote, I wouldn't be able to keep an eye on Luke.

Watching Luke Skywalker grow was my last joy. Beru Lars invited me on a regular basis to drink H'Kak bean tea and discuss every tiny charming detail of the child's development. At two months old he turned his head towards my voice, and then the milestones tumbled one after another. He smiled at me, he answered my greetings with babbling, and he giggled when I tickled his foot. He babbled "mamamamamama" and even though it wasn't directed at anyone, I could see it made Beru smile every time. He rolled over and then learned to drag himself across the floor on his hands and knees. One day I saw him pull himself up to standing height by clinging to a chair, and I realized a standard year had gone by before I knew it.

Every standard month or so I'd get on a transport from Anchorhead to Mos Eisley. If anyone asked why, I set forth some pretense about running an errand for this farmer or that one, selling or buying a part for some machine. In truth, those trips were about finding information without being found. There was holo reception in Anchorhead, but gossip was quickly becoming much more reliable than the official stories spewing out from the Imperial holonews.

It didn't take me long to find a cantina that catered to smugglers and assorted lowlifes. It only took slightly longer for said lowlifes to realize that I wasn't a good target for pickpocketing. After that, it was easy to don a farmer's tunic, find a quiet booth, buy a large drink, and listen to all the news. The beings around me never suspected I understood half of what I heard. Why would a farmer from Anchorhead speak anything other than Standard and Huttese? So, they never thought to lower their voices.

Almost all of the news pouring in was bad—this system fallen to the Empire, that planet overrun by warlords and gangsters, one Imperial governor or another earning the title "butcher." Then there were the local troubles. The Hutts punished one slave uprising with a mass execution. The hardest thing I'd ever had to do was restrain myself from leaping to the defense of the weak. I remember thinking, _I wish I could learn to close my heart off and ignore this._

Qui-Gon whispered in my ear, _I pray you never do._

* * *

 ** _If anyone's curious, we're about 2-3 chapters from the end of this story. Thanks for reading._**


	13. Chapter 13

When I had been on Tatooine almost eighteen months, I overheard something that turned my blood to ice. I was sitting in the cantina, casually listening to a conversation happening among the crew of a transport ship that had stopped for repairs. As drunk beings do, they'd fallen into a competition to shock each other. "What's the worst thing you've ever seen?" each was asking the next. The answers were creative, but hardly anything new to an old soldier like myself. _None of them is a veteran of the wars,_ I thought ruefully. _Lucky them._

No sooner had I washed that thought away with a swig of my drink, then the turn passed to the last man in the circle. "The worst thing I've ever seen," he slurred, "was Darth Vader executing rogue Jedi."

My ears pricked up at the sound of the name. _Was this man on Coruscant, at the Temple?_ I wondered, as I surreptitiously stole a glance at the speaker. He was younger than me, probably about twenty-five, but he looked older. The scars on his face and forearms doubtless had a variety of fascinating stories behind them. _I don't know his face._

"Who's Darth Vader?" one of his companions asked.

"A monster," came the reply. I saw the man take a gulp of his drink. He said, "He's the Emperor's right-hand being. Rumor says he used to be human, but now he's a cyborg—twisted and shut up in a black pressure suit. No one's ever seen his face. But I've seen him _._ " He took another gulp before he continued. "This was back about six standard months ago, before I joined the ship. I was working local security in a spaceport on Alderaan. There wasn't much crime for me to watch out for, and I was starting to get bored. Then one day I heard a commotion at a warehouse up the street. Went to check it out and I saw a whole pack of them whitewashed Imperials, whaddaya call them, Stormtroopers. They'd found about ten refugees hiding in one of the shipping crates. Someone in the crowd told me that they were Jedi knights, traitors who somehow escaped capture at the Temple back during the takeover. This Darth Vader bastard, he was choking them all. One by one. But the worst thing was, he didn't come near them. He just pinched his fingers together and watched them gasp and struggle and twitch until they died. Then on to the next in line. When they were all dead, he pulled out his light saber and sliced off all their heads, then ordered the troopers to take the heads and leave the bodies to rot."

A commotion ensues—seemingly not everyone at that table believes the man's tale. But I do. This stranger has just taught me a horrible truth.

 _He's not dead. I failed. He survived, and now the galaxy will suffer at his mechanical hands._

My mind wanders away, running through that last fight again. I suppose I never did strike a killing blow. _Why didn't I just slice off his head? What stayed my hand at that last moment?_ I thought the fire would kill him. _And I had to get back to Padmé. She was dying. I didn't stay to watch._ The Emperor must have found him on Mustafar, gotten him to a medical bay. They must have rebuilt him somehow. _Kriff, never mind how it happened, it's happened._

At the next table, the man was angrily swearing at his companions. "You want proof? I'll show you proof! I got the whole thing on holorecorder." He pulls out the device and starts playing a holo of the scene on the tabletop.

Abandoning my drink, I run up next to the man. "What will you take for that holo?" I blurt. Without waiting on an answer I shove duggats at him, probably twice what the little device is worth, and then grab the recorder and run.


	14. Chapter 14

At the Lars kitchen table, after the recording plays, there is a painful silence. The occasional giggle or coo from the playpen in the next room does nothing to break it. I could reach out to feel how Owen and Beru are feeling, but I don't dare. All three of us are avoiding eye contact. Beru is staring at the recorder, Owen is glowering at the ceiling, and I'm counting my fingers very slowly.

An eternity later, I say, "Believe me, I would never have risked coming here with Luke if I had suspected that Anakin wasn't dead."

"He is dead," Owen says abruptly. "As dead as Obi-Wan Kenobi is. They both died the day the Jedi got massacred. I don't know what that, that thing is," he says with a wave at the holorecorder. "But it was not my stepbrother. Anakin is dead." He pushes back from the table and whirls away towards the door.

Over his shoulder, he gruffly adds, "Beru, wipe that recording. I don't want my son to see it. Ever."

A few moments later, I hear Luke squeal, "Own!" and then giggle. As the minutes pass, I hear Owen's voice softly murmuring and the baby squealing in delight. They must be playing some kind of game.

Beru slowly raises her eyes to mine, and they're so full of pain that they burn. "You should stay with us tonight," she says, her voice choked. "You don't want to be alone after seeing that." Then she stands up and looks away at a wall.

It breaks my heart to see her fighting back the tears. I instinctively stand up to embrace her, then lose my nerve. _She's someone else's wife._ I settle for laying a hand on her arm.

Abruptly she pulls me to her and hugs me. "You poor man. He was your best friend and now he's gone forever." For a long moment we stand like that. I don't know what to say or how to respond. I only know that her arms around me are soothing, and I hope mine are comforting her.

Releasing me and pulling back, she looks me in the eyes and says, "Ben, tell me the truth. Do you think that monster is coming for my son?"

There's the thing none of us has dared to say yet. _The three-ton Bantha in the room._ "I don't know," I say with a sigh. "I don't know what he's thinking, or what he knows. He might suspect something if he goes looking for his wife. But my allies and I fixed it up so that Padmé's death was reported as complications from an infection. There were no formal records of her pregnancy. The best we can hope for is that he assumes the childr—the baby died, too."

Beru bites her lip while she thinks about that. "Can't a Jedi read minds? What if he scans the galaxy for people who might know what happened?"

 _I wish it was that simple. We could have found Darth Sidious in an instant if I hadn't had to spend so much time combing creation for clues._ "That talent is . . . limited, at best. Mostly it works short-range. And it's possible that Darth Vader doesn't know what to look for. As far as he knows, Luke's was never born alive.

"Think about it," I continue, more to reassure myself than her. "It's been eighteen standard months. Look around. There's no cyborgs snatching Luke from his cradle. No stormtroopers kicking in the door, no bounty hunters hanging around, no probe droids following you home when you do the shopping. If the Empire knew Luke was here, and wanted him, what would they be waiting for?"

She gives a stiff little nod, but I'm not sure she really believes me. "We can take precautions," she says, her jaw set tight. "Owen and Cliegg built a few surprises into this place after Shmi got carried off. There's perimeter alarms, blasters hidden in every room, and a hiding place I'll retreat to if the raiders ever get bold." She starts tapping on the walls as she speaks, reminding herself of every secret panel. "And I'll make sure Luke goes to survival school as soon as he's old enough. Flight school, too, if we can arrange it. He'll grow up tough, you've my word. You'll train him with those laser swords too, right?" I nod.

"Anyway, we can't fight the Imperials until they come. So let's slay that dragon when it threatens our herds." This is a Beru I've seen, but not often: Beru the warrior. Despite everything that's happened, the sight warms my heart.

With a tense smile, she adds, "Meanwhile, I have to get supper started if I'm going to feed all three of you tonight. Could you take Luke for an hour while Owen finishes up outside?"

As I'm leaving, I see out of the corner of my eye that Beru has the recorder in her hand and is standing on a chair, stashing it up somewhere out of sight.

(I did finally see that holorecorder again, but not until about two standard years later. Beru had wiped the horrifying images and recorded something beautiful in their place. I watched the images of Luke and another little boy as they played together for fifteen minutes. The two were pretending to be star pilots, zooming as they jumped over cracks in the floor. The recording ended with Beru asking, "Luke, Biggs, who are you right now?"

Luke answered, "We're two shooting stars," and Biggs finished the thought: "And they'll NEVER stop us!"

When she showed me, I said, "You missed your calling, Beru Lars. You should have been a poet.")


	15. Chapter 15

As evening fell on the day that I found out Darth Vader lived, Beru insisted Owen make up a cot for me in the living room. Slightly embarrassed, but grateful not to be alone, I settled down and declared it was the nicest bed I'd had for months. Owen made a special point of checking on Luke before he and Beru retired.

I lay awake for a good long while, meditating, praying for some answer to the questions swirling in my soul. Questions like, _is Leia safe?_ And _is there anything I can do to help protect this galaxy from Vader?_ And, as always, _is it my fault? Did I drive him to this?_

Finally, though, my heavy lids slid shut, and I slept.

 _The smell of sulfur. The air is burning. I couldn't feel the heat before. Some beings say deserts are hot, but they don't know the meaning of the word. He's burning too, the monster I once trained to fight, and screaming. I stumble up the heaps of ash and slag, tears evaporating from my cheeks, and his screams follow me, getting louder and louder, and I think it's the worst thing I've ever heard._

 _Then I realize how quiet the ship ahead of me is. I realize Padmé isn't screaming. I burst in and she's already dead, her blood blooming across the floor, and now I'm screaming too. Somewhere on the ship a baby is crying, and I'm hunting for it, tearing everything apart, where is he, where is he, but I can't find him, he's gone, I've lost . . ._

When I wake from the nightmare, all I can hear is Luke's crying.


	16. Chapter 16

Beru finds me in Luke's room with him laid against my shoulder, humming what I hope is a lullaby. "Is he ok? I thought I heard him crying," she asks, yawning.

"I shouted in my sleep and woke him," I lie. _I shouted all right, just not out loud. He sensed my fear and it frightened him._ He's young to develop that talent, but not the youngest ever seen _._ "All my fault. I'll put him back to sleep. You can get some rest."

She nods sleepily and strokes Luke's hair, whispering, "I love you, little boy," before she goes.

I stay, swaying and murmuring to the child. "Your name is Luke Skywalker," I whisper, "And you're safe. Don't be scared. Your daddy was brave. They called him the Hero with No Fear. You'll be like him someday." _But not in all respects, I very much hope._ "When I left him," I whisper, leaving out the words _for dead,_ "I thought that saving your mother was the last thing I could do for him. But I was wrong. Protecting you, training you, that's the last thing I'll do for him in this life."

At breakfast the next day, I tried to broach the subject of starting Luke's training. It did not go over well.

"TRAIN him?" Owen exclaimed angrily, "To do what? To seduce galactic senators? To murder innocents in cold blood? If you do to him what you did to his father, I'll—" He broke off, and swore. "Forget it. You'll train that boy over my dead body."

He shoved away from the table and left the room.

There was an awkward silence. I didn't know what to do or say, so I let the Force fill me as I reminded myself, _anger is of the dark side._ Beru continued to spoon mash into Luke's hungry mouth, but her eyes were on me the entire time.

Finally, she said, "I'm sorry. Owen's temper gets the better of him sometimes. He was out of line."

I sighed, but quietly. "No, don't apologize for him. He's not wrong. I was the one responsible for Anakin's training. When he fell, he fell on my watch." My eyes filled with tears, but I let the Force carry them away. _I have known this for months now. It is only admitting it that stings my pride._ "I did teach him how to use a lightsaber in combat, how to kill enemies, and about . . . men and women," I finished awkwardly, "I suppose he used those lessons to do everything he's done."

The woman across from me set the bowl down and carefully started wiping breakfast off Luke's face. "Did you also teach him about birth control?" she asked bluntly.

I was stunned, not used to hearing the subject mentioned in mixed company. After a long drink of my tea, I stammered, "It, it came up once or twice." _How could it not. A Temple full of teenagers, a galaxy full of willing beings, a policy forbidding Jedi to raise families, we had to tell them something._

She paused in her attempts to wash the squirming toddler and said, "And yet, here's his son. Apparently that lesson didn't stick."

"Apparently not," I agree. _Whoever was supposed to explain it to Padmé must not have done a good job, either._

Beru asked, "Did you teach him how to decide which beings were his enemies?"

"I tried," I said honestly, "But everything was so mixed up . . . I thought the Separatists were the enemies, and the Sith behind them, but it turned out the Sith were behind me and I was on the wrong side. We were so blind."

Beru put down the damp rag, handed Luke a rattle to distract him, and turned towards me. "It sounds like a lot of people were forced to choose sides without understanding which side was which. Like betting without knowing the stakes."

 _Regret is an attachment,_ I reminded myself as I said, "Yes. That's exactly how it was."

Beru laid her hands over mine on the table. "Ben, there's evil and confusion everywhere in this galaxy. If every parent were held responsible for the actions of his children, hardly a being in this universe would be innocent. I mean, just imagine what Emperor Palpatine's parents would have to answer for, if the world worked like that!" She smiled a little, trying to lighten the mood, but it was too heavy for that.

She squeezed my hands. "Listen, Ben, I know you taught Anakin the best way you could. What he's become is his fault, not yours. Please promise me you'll find a way to forgive yourself."

I didn't think, at that moment, that I ever would. But I promised her anyway, because she was my last and wisest friend.

(Later in the day as I was leaving, she quietly told me, "I'll talk to Owen about letting you train Luke, but I won't go against him if he doesn't change his mind. He wants what's best for the child, and Luke should grow up knowing that Owen and I are a united front." I didn't know what to say, and she self-consciously added, "I'm sorry, Ben, but that's the best I can do."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I reassured her. "You love your husband and your son. I would never ask you to do anything that wasn't right for the family.")


	17. Chapter 17

The years passed, and the news trickling through the cantina only got worse. Rebel activity was crushed on such and such a planet—the holonews called it a battle, everyone else named it a massacre. Emperor Palpatine presided over the opening of a new academy, "to train all young men who feel the call to serve their Empire." _Men, not beings._ The pro-human sentiment spewing out of the holo was sickening. Still, it was all a long way from here.

Until the day, when Luke was nearly six, when the Hutts cut a deal with the Imperials regarding administration of Tatooine. All of a sudden, this little lawless backwater was a bona fide member system of the Galactic Empire. I meditated daily at Qui-Gon's direction, and my sight was slowly clearing, but I hadn't predicted that. _The Republic never could get a grip on this place, not even after a millennium, and the Empire did it in half a decade._ There was a certain horrifying efficiency in their success.

Owen hadn't banned me from the homestead yet in those days, but I'd been making myself scarce all the same. Beru sought me out while I was at a market in Anchorhead to tell me, "They're making everyone register themselves and their children for official identification cards."

"I know," I said. Such had been standard procedure in the core worlds for generations; the Empire had expanded the policy wherever they went.

"They're asking to see birth records," she said.

 _Kriff._ I forced myself to seem nonchalant when I said, "Oh, is that how it works?"

She invited me over for tea as casually as she could. Just two former neighbors catching up. But as we sipped, we conducted a hurried strategy meeting.

"Some beings in Mos Eisley are selling fake IDs," I said, "I was planning on getting one, myself."

Beru shook her head. "I know that would be the easiest way . . . but I don't trust that they'll truly be indistinguishable from the real thing. Plus Luke might want to do things later in life, travel off-world, go to secondary school, take jobs, and the ID could get caught at any stage. How can I let my son live with that over his head?"

I sipped my tea. "I understand your reluctance." _Although we might break more laws trying to get him a legal one than we would buying an illegal one._ The ironies of oppressive governments never cease.

Beru toyed with a napkin. "So I thought I'd ask, does Luke have a birth record somewhere?"

"In a manner of speaking," I said, "But the hard part will be proving that he's your nephew. Tell me, what kind of records are kept of slaves on Tatooine?"

The following week, a low-level records clerk in Mos Espa developed a sudden desire to go out for a drink in the middle of his shift, without even locking down his access terminal. It was a quarter hour's work to locate Anakin Skywalker's manumission certificate and amend it. By the time I slipped out into daylight again, the official record showed that Ani was freed, along with his mother, at age eleven by their latest owner, Cliegg Lars. The last known address for both was the Lars homestead, in Anchorhead.

That was the riskiest part. The official records now contradicted living memory, and we had no propaganda factories here to convince people of the lie. But Anchorhead's population had been drastically reduced when twenty-seven young men died trying to rescue Shmi, and some of the broken families had sold their homesteads in grief. Only a handful of people remained who might remember that Shmi had talked about a long-lost son. I told Beru, "If anyone asks, tell them Anakin left Tatooine to join a merchant ship very soon after Shmi and Cliegg married. It's easy enough to convince yourself you're misremembering the age of a boy you don't even remember meeting."

I'd given false names for both of us when I checked Padmé in at the medical center on Polis Massa, and claimed to be her brother. In the confused early days after Imperial registration policy came to the Outer Rim, the tiny medical facility was receiving millions of records requests every standard month. There was no reason to squint at each one.

The rest was only details: removing references to Twin A and Twin B, changing "mother's last name," filling in the blank I'd originally left next to "father's name" with "Ani Skywalker, deceased." After a few hours' work at a public computer terminal, I delivered some very convincing documents to Beru. She put Luke to bed early, and then she and Owen and I sat and went over and over every detail of the story they needed to sell.

There had never been such a thing as family court on Tatooine. When Beru and Owen Lars showed up at the Imperial Registration Office with documentation of Luke's birth and the death of one Dormé Skywalker (widow of Ani Skywalker, stepbrother of Owen Lars), they managed to bluff their way past the bored clerk. When all was said and done, Luke Skywalker was registered as an orphaned dependent child, the legal ward of his aunt and uncle.

At first, I was certain that the deception would be uncovered any day. But months turned to years and no one came to snatch Luke away. That was the first good news I'd had since the Republic fell.

My savings sufficed to buy a fake ID for myself, but as an added precaution I left Anchorhead and moved out to the Jungland Wastes. No one out there cared to see my identification.


	18. Chapter 18

The Force always told me how Luke was, but I still went by the homestead once in a while to check up on him. Sometimes Beru would see me and invite me in. On those occasions Owen would be polite, but not friendly. He was never friendly with me again after seeing Darth Vader. Still, I was fairly frequent visitor in his home, his son knew me by sight, and we existed around each other without hostility. I was happy enough with that, for a time.

We lived that way until Luke's seventh birthday. Beru had sent word through one of the traders that she knew sold me my vitamin packs: there will be a party. You are invited. So, come the day, I mounted my aging eopie and made the long journey to Anchorhead.

I suppose my eagerness to see the boy must have made me hurry, because I pulled up in front of the Lars homestead almost thirty standard minutes before the appointed time. Luke was outside, playing with a toy shuttle. It looked shiny, new, exactly the kind of present one might use to distract the birthday boy while dinner was prepared and plates were laid. I smiled in spite of myself. Part of me whispered, _he should already be halfway through training,_ but a larger part insisted, _he deserves this life._

"Pew! Pew! Vroom!" Luke cried out. "They're after us, Biggs! Erasive maneuvers!" Then, spotting me, he squealed, "Ben! It's my birthday!"

"Is it?" I asked with a grin, dismounting and crouching down to accept his hug. "Then you must be the very special little boy whose birthday party I came for!"

"I am! I am!" he gushed.

I smiled wider. "Do you know what I brought for that special little boy?"

His eyes widened. "A present?"

"How did you know?" I asked with a chuckle. "You must be a good guesser."

Luke screwed up his face the way little boys do when they're thinking hard. "I guess I am a good guesser. I even guessed where the screwdriver was."

"What screwdriver?" I asked.

"Uncle Owen left his screwdriver under the couch by mistake and I closed my eyes and thought real hard and I saw it was under the couch. But he said I must have put it there myself. I didn't, though," he finished indignantly. Then his face suddenly brightened. "What did you bring me?" he demanded.

I pulled a small package out of my sleeve. It was a simple little toy, just a model of a Krayt dragon, but I'd worked hard to make it. "Here you go, Luke. Happy birthday," I said as I handed it over. The wrappings were torn off in under a second.

"Whoa!" Luke said as he pushed the tiny legs back and forth and opened the tiny jaws. Then, thrusting it towards me, he made a childish attempt at a Krayt dragon's "roar!"

"Aah!" I yelped in mock terror, flinging my hands up. "Careful with that one!"

Luke giggled. "Sorry to scare you, Ben."

"That's quite all right, Luke. Listen, why don't you play with your dragon and your ship for a while? I have to go inside and say hello to your aunt and uncle."

"Okay! See you later," the little boy said. As I hurried inside, my mind was reeling around with the words _I thought real hard and I saw it was under the couch._

The party was a success, if the number of squealing children was anything to go by. There were games and sweets and presents for the birthday boy, who magnanimously let all his friends play with whatever they wanted. Beru's brother and sister had brought new clothes, which I could see Luke hated, but he was polite enough to mumble "thanks" before tearing the paper off something more fun. I watched half a dozen little boys and girls wrestle over a length of rope, and thought back to the birthdays we'd celebrated back in the crèche. Each month the crèche attendant would read out the names of beings who were gaining a year, and they would all get some symbolic present that could help them with their next level of training. Most years that meant clothing. Afterwards the whole crèche got to eat dessert in the middle of the day. I remembered how once I had counted the hours until the month turned, desperate for even that small change of pace.

 _I'm suggesting pulling a seven-year-old away from this world and into that one. Is that right?_

I didn't hear an answer. Still, I came to Tatooine for a reason, all those years ago, and I had to persist. All through the whole party, I was wondering what to say to Owen about Luke's Force sensitivity. Beru and I had mentioned training dozens of times over the years, and always been dismissed. What arguments were there left to make?


	19. Chapter 19

I lingered as the guests began to collect their own children and head home to close up their homesteads against the night. I made a show of helping to clean up, passing plates to Beru in the kitchen and brushing crumbs up with napkins. Luke had worn himself out completely and was dozing on his feet as Beru led him to the 'fresher and tucked him into bed.

Finally, I was alone with Owen Lars.

"You have a fine young man, there," I ventured.

Owen graced me with a tight smile. "Thank you. I'm proud of him."

"Does he do well at his studies?" I asked.

The smile widened. "As if he was born to them. He can read anything you put in front of him, maybe even if he doesn't know what the words mean. And he's smart other ways too. Has a real gift for doing maintenance on all the things around the place, once I talk him through it once or twice. Remembers everything he sees, too."

This was the best opening I was likely to get. So I said, "He was telling me that you lost a screwdriver and he was able to guess where it was." Owen's smile turned into a scowl.

"He hid the screwdriver to tease me," he said dismissively.

"I'm not sure that's true," I said, trying to keep my tone non-judgmental. "For that matter, I don't think you believe that, either."

Owen squared his shoulders against me and repeated, "He hid the screwdriver. How else could he know where it was?"

"He's Force-sensitive, Owen. Even without training, his talents will show themselves. If you let me, I can teach him to control them. Please, he deserves a chance to make the most of who he is." _He was born to be a Jedi._

Owen shook his head firmly. "No. No training. You're not taking my boy away from me."

"It wouldn't have to be that way," I protested. "I could train him right here on Tatooine, in your home, and you could be with him every day."

"I said no, Ben! Force take you," Owen spat, "It doesn't matter where you trained him. One day you'd hear of some poor suffering beings on the far side of the Rim, and you'd drag him off on some damn fool mission and we'd never see him again. I will never allow that."

 _Anger leads to hate_ , I pushed myself to remember. _Let it go._ "If you want, I won't ask him to carry out any missions until he's a grown man. But I have to start training him now or he might never be ready."

Owen threw the forks he'd been holding onto the table, and the clatter sang out through the entire house. He stared at them for a moment, and then started to pick them up again. When he finally looked up again, his eyes were glistening. Shocked, I realized, _he's afraid._

"I don't want him to 'be ready.' I don't want him on any missions, now or ever. I only want him safe, and here, with us." He paused and I could see he was trying to swallow a sob. "Shmi Skywalker was my mother, and she loved me, but I was always her second son. She went outside every night before the suns set. She watched the sky, waiting for her firstborn, for her baby to come home. Every night I'd go outside to bring her in, and she'd say, 'He couldn't make it tonight, he's saving orphans,' or 'he's winning a battle' or 'he's guarding the chancellor. He has to do that, now that he's a Jedi.' Every night. For ten years. Can you even understand how many nights there are in ten standard years?" He was raising his voice, but he wasn't angry at me. "Can you even imagine her grief?" he asked, sadness and anger and loss choking the words.

 _Yes I can_. It had been seven standard years since I lost Anakin, my son, and I had felt the grief every single day. I wanted to tell Owen that. I wanted to argue that Anakin made his own choices and every parent has to let go of their child eventually and attachment leads to greed. Somehow, though, I couldn't quite spit the words out.

Owen said, "I lost my mother knowing that I couldn't ever give her what she really wanted. The only thing she wanted in this universe was to know her firstborn was safe. She never had that. Not as a slave, not as a free woman, not even the day she died. Nothing will change that, ever. But I swear," he added with conviction, "I swear by whatever gods may exist that I will not let my son be ripped from me like hers was. You brought Luke to us. You convinced me to adopt him. Now you need to let me be a true father and let me decide what is right for him."

I was speechless for long moments, and I pulled the living Force through me, letting it carry away my surprise and grief and doubt. Qui-Gon's voice whispered to me and it said, _Luke needs this love. That is why Yoda told you to bring him here._

Finally, I was able to say, "When he's old enough, he'll make his own choice no matter what you say."

Owen only said, "He's not old enough now."

I could have argued about the definition of _old enough,_ but all of a sudden I realized I didn't want to. "Owen," I found myself saying, "I'll come back when he is. Until then, I'll be here when I'm needed. But you are right. I'm sorry I couldn't see that until now."

Owen said nothing. Eventually I added, "When there's trouble, Beru knows how to find me."

That night I left the Lars homestead with tears in my eyes. It was the last time I would ever be inside it.


	20. Chapter 20

It was about that time, or maybe just before it, that I caught a brief mention on the Holonews of the death of Senator Bail Organa's wife. I had not met Lady Organa, yet I grieved for her. While Luke had his family, while he had me to watch over him and friends to play with, his sister was enduring a terrible loss. I desperately wanted to know how she was. The Holonews didn't mention her, except to say, "Senator Organa has left the Senate's current session in order to comfort his young daughter." _Leia_ , I thought, _her name is Leia._

From that day forward, whenever I meditated I sought for visions of that little girl on Alderaan. Many a time I wished I could have kept her with her brother, to give them each a blood relation they could depend on.

Then again, sometimes I had to rush out in the middle of the night to rescue Luke because he had witnessed the cruelty of Jabba's water tax collectors during drought and decided to confront them, alone, at the age of eight. On nights like that, I considered, _perhaps it is best that there are not two Skywalker children in this system._

One evening in the cantina, around 10 years after I came to Tatooine, a man sidled up and sat next to me at the bar. "Good evening, my friend," he said, slightly slurring his words, "Tell the truth, have you ever tasted swill as gritty as this?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Sadly, most things on Tatooine are fairly gritty. Where do you come from? Maybe I should go there for cleaner drinks."

"Alderaan," he said with a laugh, "Everything there is much smoother. Prettier, too. I don't know how you can bear being here for years with nothing but sand to look at."

I said, "You get used to it after a while." I thought, _how does he know I'm from off-world?_ My clothes were homespun, and I didn't look distinctive—I'd taken pains not to. It was hard to shake an accent, but I always muddied it a little when speaking to strangers. _Kriff, what if he recognizes me from the old days?_ Those damn holoreporters had made Obi-Wan Kenobi's face famous on dozens of systems. _I'm ten years older, though, and sunburnt to leather. How could he know my new face?_

"Can I offer you another gritty glass?" I asked casually, which is the fastest way to continue a bar conversation.

"Maybe just one more," the Alderaanian accepted. I signaled for the barkeep.

"Alderaan, you say? You're a long way from home. What brings you out this far?" I asked.

"Business," he said, "I'm running an errand for my boss."

"Who's that?" I asked innocently.

"Viceroy high-and-mighty himself. Bail Organa. Sends me out to this dust mote on some damn fool errand to find a man who's likely been dead a decade."

A variety of curse words ran through my mind. _If he's risking reaching out, it could mean the Empire knows our secret._ I forced myself to say, "Who does Bail Organa know on Tatooine?"

"Psh," the drunk man said, "It's not someone he knows, it's a relative of his late wife. The black sheep of the family or some such. He was a drunkard and a criminal and the last anyone heard of him, he was working as hired muscle for some Hutt. But now that he's remarrying, he thinks it might be good for his daughter to have her mother's brother around. Gods know why."

Relief flooded through me. _He's not looking for me after all._ "I hadn't heard that the Viceroy had a daughter," I lied, "How old is she?"

The drunk man eyed his empty glass suspiciously. "Ten standards. When I'm not busy trying to track down errant uncles, I'm one of her bodyguards."

I waved at the barkeep, paid for a refill, and kept him talking another quarter hour. By the end of it I'd heard more than I ever hoped to know about domestic Alderaanian politics, and a few precious nuggets of information about Princess Leia Organa. She liked poetry but hated homework. She loved going to her father's offices with him. She could be a perfect lady in public, but was tomboyish in private. She'd knocked out a friend's baby tooth during a friendly tussle, then cried for an hour from the guilt. It was more detail than I'd ever dreamed of, and it was proof she was safe.

When the bar closed I helped my stumbling companion out to the street and asked where he was going next. He cracked a crude joke and invited me to a brothel, but I declined. He left, staggering much less than I expected based on how much he'd had to drink.

It wasn't until I was safe in my private room at the guesthouse, taking off my coat, that I discovered the thin, crinkly substance in my pocket. It took me a moment to realize what it was. Paper wasn't common anymore even in the core worlds. Why cut down trees to send messages when you can use a holopad? _So who put this paper in my pocket?_

The message inside was in an old Jedi cipher. Translated, it read: "Dear Ben, the princess grows braver every day. No one suspects. While I live, she will be safe. I hope your boy is as happy as my daughter is. Be well. – Bail."

 _So. He did recognize my face._


	21. Chapter 21

As the years passed, a curious thing happened. The Empire's tendrils were everywhere and it seemed the Dark Side had more influence than ever, yet somehow my sight was clearing. Again I could sense the future, the past, and events far away, with more certainty than I ever had—even as a Padawan, before the wars began.

What I saw terrified me.

I saw smoke billowing from civilian houses on dozens of systems. I saw explosions in space, larger and more destructive than any I'd seen in the Clone Wars. I saw young men—teenagers—immolated in dying cockpits, and monstrous troop movers stomping over innocent heads. I saw children starving as soldiers laughed and mocked them for begging.

The visions got stronger and more frightening as Luke got older. At night, I would frequently dream that the whole world had turned to flame. Time and again, I sensed the loss of millions of people, wiped out in an instant. That was confusing, but felt all too real.

I told myself that most visions only showed futures that could be, not ones that absolutely would. That helped me continue living. But there were certain events that I saw over and over, slightly different but always recognizable. Those were the ones I knew I couldn't avoid.

For one, Owen and Beru Lars would die before their time, at the hands of the Empire. The exact circumstances were still unclear. For another, Luke would become a Rebel. For a third, before I died physically, I would confront Darth Vader once more. We would fight. I knew, years in advance, that I would not walk away from that battle.

By then, though, I had no reason to fear death.

I saw plenty of futures worth fearing. I saw Luke perverting the power of the Force to crush a woman's windpipe. I saw Stormtroopers on Tatooine, terrorizing the population into line after the Empire seized their property and enslaved them. I saw Darth Vader at the Lars homestead, dragging Luke away and vaporizing his home. I saw Luke die—in battle, by assassination, in bed with a poisonous woman. I saw the Dark Side taking over the Force, choking all that was good until no one remembered that Light had ever existed.

I searched each vision for a path through the darkness and into the light. After many attempts, I finally saw that the only good futures were ones where the Emperor and Darth Vader both died. That gave me hope, but presented problems of its own. Yoda and I had not been able to slay either monster. Would Luke ever be strong enough? After nineteen years on Tatooine, I still didn't know.

One morning I woke up and I sensed two very important things. First, Luke Skywalker was heading for the Jungland Wastes, in some haste. That was enough to make me jump out of bed and dress in record time. I was halfway to my door before the full meaning of the second thing I sensed struck me.

 _The Stormtroopers have come._

That touched off a terrible war within my soul. Every instinct I had wanted to run for the Lars homestead as fast as I could, lightsaber in hand, ready to fight. Beru and Owen clearly stood no chance against the Empire, whereas I knew Imperial procedure, discipline, tactics—hell, I'd invented some of the Empire's favorite tricks. The Lars's wouldn't even put up a decent fight without my help.

On the other hand, I was nearly an hour's journey away from their home. I was fifty-six. I knew Luke was coming to me, which mean he was safe. If I met Luke on the way and convinced him to take me back to the homestead as fast as a speeder could go, I'd be too late to save his aunt and uncle and exactly on time to get him captured.

There was nothing I could do except pray. _Forgive me, Beru and Owen. You have done well. I will protect your son now._

I armed myself and headed out to find Luke. He was safe from the Empire out here, but it was hardly the only danger in the universe.

I sensed his parents' death at roughly the same time I spotted his unconscious body surrounded by sand people.


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello gentle readers! Yes, we're going to dip our toes in the Original Trilogy here. The story is almost over, though. Don't worry.**

 **Fun fact: as of last chapter, this story is officially the longest thing I've ever written. I include here my actual published undergraduate thesis. This is a state of affairs I never expected to encounter.**

* * *

It had been years since I used any field medicine skills, but I hadn't quite forgotten them all. When I had Luke conscious and alert, I asked the most casual question I could think of. "Tell me, young Luke. What brings you out this far?"

With a grunt, young Luke (not so young anymore, in truth) said, "This little droid. I think he's searching for his former master, but I've never seen such devotion in a droid before. Uh, he claims to be the property of an Obi-Wan Kenobi. Is he a relative of yours? Do you know who he's talking about?"

The name was a shock to my ears. Six simple syllables, yet they changed my whole world in the blink of an eye. I hadn't heard that name mentioned once since the first day I met Beru Lars.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi? Obi-Wan?" I repeated, still trying to grasp the significance. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time." _Plus I've forced myself to believe that the man who bore it had died in the Jedi Purge._ _He died, and was buried in the sands of Tatooine._

"I think my uncle knows him," Luke said, oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions in my mind. "He said he was dead."

"Oh, he's not dead," I said, "Not yet." _In fact, he has just been recalled to life._

"You know him?" Luke asked.

"Well of course I know him," I said, "He's me!"

Somehow I got the bewildered Luke and his two battered droids back to my humble hut. I tried to act like the situation was completely under control, as if a protocol droid, an astromech, and a young Force-sensitive orphan visited a dead man in the Jungland Wastes every day. As if the only family Luke had ever known wasn't burning to ashes at that very moment.

Yet I took certain steps that I would never have dared to take if I hadn't known Owen was dead. To start with, I told Luke who his father had been—Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi knight. The story had to be oversimplified, of course, to fit with what Luke had been told of his family history. It wasn't too hard to describe Anakin without mentioning the monster he became. "The best star pilot in the galaxy," I called him, knowing Luke would love to hear that. "He was a good friend," I said, remembering all the times he'd come back for me, orders be damned, and saved my life, time after time, in all the eventful thirteen years we had together. Before the dark days.

Then I gave Luke the lightsaber I'd scooped from Mustafar's ashes, once upon a time. "Your father wanted you to have it, when you were old enough," I said. _Or at least he probably would have wanted that,_ I thought.

He started waving it around like a fool, without even asking how it worked. _I forgot how difficult it can be to work with a teenager._ Young men, always rushing ahead of themselves. I had scolded Anakin for such carelessness many a time, but by now I knew enough to tamp down my temper. Instead, I tried to explain to Luke what the Jedi order had been, what it had  meant. The truth had been so blurred and buried by Imperial propaganda that I feared he wouldn't believe me. "For a thousand generations, the Jedi knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic," _before we lost our way completely_.

Yet Luke only had one question, which was both good news and bad news. "How did my father die?" he asked me.

I'd had twenty years to consider my answer, so I didn't miss a beat. "A young Jedi named Darth Vader, who was a pupil of mine till he turned to evil, helped the Empire hunt down and destroy the Jedi Knights. He betrayed and murdered your father. Now the Jedi are all but extinct." _Not quite. Just as that answer is almost the truth, but not quite._

Changing the subject was the safest option. "Vader was seduced by the Dark Side of the Force."

"The Force?" Luke asked, a puzzled look on his face. All I could think was, _Oh, Owen, why didn't you at least let me teach him this much?_

In truth, though, I was so delighted in my first chance to instruct a padawan after a lifetime of exile that I didn't mind explaining the basics. It was so pleasant, unexpectedly so, to sit with Luke and tell him about the world beyond his own. It was a world ruled by an evil Empire, a world enveloped by the Force, a world that had recently dropped an incredibly important astromech and a protocol droid into our laps.

Ah yes, the astromech droid. When it had had a chance to power up, it readily agreed to play the holographic message it was carrying for me. The projector whirred, and suddenly a beautiful young woman with brown hair was standing in my home.

"General Kenobi," she said, a title I'd almost forgotten, "Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars. Now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire. I regret that I am unable to present my father's request to you in person, but my ship has fallen under attack and I'm afraid my mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed."

There was more—vital information in the R2 unit, please get it to my father. I hardly heard a word of it. All my attention was focused on the woman – on Princess Leia Organa. The last I'd seen of her, she'd been an infant. I'd plucked her brother out of their shared crib and left her crying, with Bail Organa struggling to soothe her. Now, here she was: grown and lovely and strong. Her message was one of desperation, but there was no fear in her voice, no crouch in her stance. She was not a woman to cower before the might of the Empire. She was a woman made of steel.

 _She is the spitting image of her mother._

"Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi," Leia said, "You're my only hope."

Many things went through my mind. _I should have kept them together, protected them both._

 _Why did Bail involve her in the rebellion? She's only a child!_

 _Chaos take the R2 unit's data, I have to save her._

 _Will I even be able to get to her?_

 _Padmé, if only you could've lived to see your daughter. You'd be so proud._

 _I'm too old to save princesses._

 _I have to save her._

 _I have to deliver the R2 unit._

 _We have to save her._

I let go of all of these thoughts. I let the Force fill me. _Show me the way_ ,I begged, and in the blink of an eye, it had.

 _Yes, I'm too old. But I'm not alone. Maybe, just maybe, Luke and I can do everything, together – save the princess, deliver the message, and aid the Rebellion._ _I only need him with me._

"You must learn the ways of the Force, if you're to come with me to Alderaan," I said to Luke.


	23. Chapter 23

I left Tatooine much the way I had come to it: shortly after slicing off someone's limbs, in the company of a recently-orphaned Luke Skywalker, and dogged by bad feelings about the whole situation. I had a sense that I would not live much longer, physically at least, and was waiting every moment to learn how and when I would encounter my killer. The unpleasantness at the docking bay made me think that someone had guessed where we were heading and half the Imperial fleet would be waiting at Alderaan, Darth Vader aboard the flagship. I kept that concern to myself, though. We'd know for certain in just a few standard days.

I threw myself into training Luke, trying to at least cover the basics. Training a Jedi should take twenty years, but we barely had twenty-four waking hours to spend together. _If I live beyond our trip to Alderaan, we might be able to catch up._ It was quite a significant "if," though.

Despite the uncertainty of what awaited us at the end of our journey, I found the trip rather pleasant. Being around Luke was awakening my hope for the future. My life had known years of fighting, then decades of exile and grief and regret while the war raged on without me. I was worn out. But Luke had had a life of peace, up until the last few days, and was ready to take on anything. Ready and willing, if not necessarily competent.

The brave face he had on was impressive, considering how deeply he grieved for his aunt and uncle. During the day he acted as if nothing had happened, as if he was only excited to finally be leaving home. He only cried at night, alone. The grief pouring from his soul was agonizing. I considered whether I should tell him that the woman in the message was his sister, to give him hope that he'd have a family again. I decided against it, though, in case we failed to save her.

The smuggler carrying us was a professional. He didn't even ask for our names, though I heard Luke introduce himself. His first mate, the Wookiee, also wisely decided not to ask me where I had learned to speak his language. The droids didn't seem to know much about the mission we were on, but the astromech allowed me to see Leia's message as often as I wanted. The handful of days we spent on the Millennium Falcon were a bubble of peace and ease.

The bubble popped while I was putting Luke through saber drills. One moment I was wryly telling our pilot that there was no such thing as luck. The next, I was drowning in fear and sorrow and despair so potent that I almost fainted. I hadn't sensed a disturbance in the Force that strongly since the day Anakin fell. The voices that had cried out for help fell silent, but a bitter aftertaste remained. Some great evil had happened close by, and the Dark Side was surging, glorying in its triumph.

 _That explains the bad feeling I had about this trip._

As the ship's proximity alarm wailed and we all filed into the cockpit, I let go of myself and slipped into the Force. _Is all lost?_ I wanted to know.

I heard Qui-Gon's voice, as I had so many times before, but now it was stronger, louder, as if the man himself were standing in the very room with me. _All is not lost,_ he said. _You are about to triumph. You have done well in your training. Soon, you will let go of your physical body. Don't be afraid,_ he counseled me, but he hardly needed to say it. Letting go of my fear for my life was as easy as breathing.

Letting go of my fear for Luke and for Leia was much harder.


	24. Chapter 24

In a secret compartment in a Corellian freighter, which was itself inside a hanger, which in turn was inside a moon-sized space station, I stilled my breath and reached out to gauge our chances. There were dozens of beings in the vicinity, most of them displaying the attitude of discipline and fear that screamed "soldiers." They were imperials, but not clones, as far as I could tell. _A pity_ , I thought, _some of the clones might have been on my side, once._ I continued to press my awareness, seeking for hints to what we were up against.

Suddenly, there it was. A Force signature I'd know anywhere. It was older than when I'd last sensed it, and different, cloudier and dirtier on the surface. As if it had been covered in oil and no one had washed it for twenty years. But still, it was unmistakable.

 _Anakin is here._

 _No he's not,_ I reminded myself. _He's dead. That's Darth Vader._

It was easier to think than it was to believe.

* * *

The only hope for Luke and for the R2 unit was for me to get rid of the tractor beam. So, get rid of the tractor beam I would. That much was clear. The details of "how" were murkier. I was on a state-of-the-art battle station surrounded by the enemy—above, below, in front, and behind. But the Force was with me, and I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. A line from a song floated through my mind, _old soldiers never die, they just fade away._

Holding onto that thought, and letting go of all else, I faded right into the walls and passed by the patrols unseen.

* * *

I'd done my part – the tractor beam was down, and no one knew I had ever been there.

Judging by the sheer amount of chaos and confusion surrounding me in the halls, however, the same could not be said about any of my companions. I overheard shouts of "explosions" and "detention block." I couldn't tell exactly why Luke would've left the relative safety of that supply room, but I had a few guesses.

 _Finds out a rebel is being held prisoner, dashes right in with no extraction plan. He is his father's son in_ _so_ _many ways._ It likely didn't even matter who was being held prisoner; if he thought he or she was an ally, he would go to rescue them.

 _Well. Let us hope he has enough sense to get back to the ship_ , I reflected, _so that I can explain the concept of tactical disadvantage to him._

I heard my old master's voice say, _Best get yourself back to the ship, young padawan._

Smiling at the reminder, I felt through the Force to map out the best route back to the hanger. _Let's see. Corridor ahead of me, Stormtroopers. Corridor to my left, naval officers. Corridor on my right, clear. So, down that one, make a left, work your way rightwards from there . . ._

In my meditative state, a part of me was in every passageway I was creeping through. I could see the _Millennium Falcon_ as easily as a man can find his own hands in the dark. I could feel the fear and confusion coursing through the Imperial Troops who were trying to pin down enemies they couldn't seem to find. I could sense where my friends were – Luke, the Corellian and the Wookiee, and another person, whose Force scent seemed familiar even though I couldn't place it. They were worried and running, but I was momentarily relieved to realize that they were all alive and headed roughly towards my own destination.

An instant later, I felt someone else who was heading for that same hangar. _Darth Vader_ , I reminded myself, _his name is Darth Vader now_.

Then again, I reflected, _no matter what you call him, he's heading to the one place you absolutely cannot allow him to be._

I focused hard on letting go of everything—the pang of recognition, the grief at sensing Vader's pain, the fear of losing my first lightsaber battle in two decades. I unconsciously reached for my belt, to assure myself that my saber was still with me. Then I altered my route.

I wasn't going back to the hangar. I had another stop to make.


	25. Chapter 25

**The end at last! Thanks for sticking with me and for your very kind reviews. I hope you're all as excited as I am for episode 7! Two weeks to go!**

* * *

I found him waiting for me, saber ignited. _A red saber. How fitting that he'd pick the color of blood._ He actually cut quite an imposing figure: the pressure suit hid everything that could identify him as a human while also making him seem taller, larger, and more threatening. _Why a cape, though? Did he miss the feeling of a Jedi robe?_ The mechanical respirator's wheezing and the hum of his lightsaber provided an eerie soundtrack for the whole tableau.

Vader walked towards me. I sensed rage and bloodlust surging in his soul, giving him a dark power that sickened me. I drew and ignited my saber. _This weapon is your life_ , I'd told him once. _No, you told Anakin that. NOT HIM._

He spoke, and the voice was wrong in ways I couldn't describe. "I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan. We meet again at last," he boomed. _For how many beings has that voice been the last thing they heard in this universe?_

He continued, "The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but a learner. Now, I am the master."

I thought, _you never left me._ I said, "Only a master of evil, Darth." He attacked and I parried, spinning and forcing my body into saber forms it had all but forgotten. Vader swung at me and slashed a wall instead. I could see his new body wasn't as quick or agile as his old one. Unfortunately, I wasn't as fast as I once was, either. After only a few moments of battle, I knew that my desert-worn body would be no match for a mad cyborg in strength or stamina.

Which meant I was likely about to die. I let go of that thought.

I probed for weaknesses. I let the Force guide me into the circuits of his pressure suit, looking for a glitch I could exploit. That trick had worked on Anakin's arm, once. Sadly, cybernetic limbs had seemingly seen some improvements while I was in exile; these wouldn't drop a saber as easily.

"Your powers are weak, old man," Vader taunted. It didn't sting me at all. _I'd rather grow old as a good man than turn dark and be immortal. I suppose he wouldn't understand_ , I thought.

 _But if he wants to talk, let's talk._ "You can't win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine."

His answer was another attack. I defended as best I could.

Finally he said, "You should not have come back."

 _Maybe not,_ I thought as I beat off a furious flurry of slashes. He hadn't defeated me, yet, but I was definitely giving ground. _I should have finished this when I was twenty years younger. But regret is an attachment._

As I backed up, I saw—more with the Force than with my eyes—that we had come within sight of the hangar where the _Millennium Falcon_ sat. Across the space I could tell that Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and someone else were close by, hoping for a chance to get to the _Falcon._ A squadron of storm troopers were guarding it, but I could sense that our duel was attracting their attention. _Good,_ I thought, _yes, that's right, look at me. Shoot at me if you dare. Only give Luke a chance to make a break for the ship._

My arms were growing heavier by the second; even with the Force's help, I knew I wasn't strong enough to keep this up much longer. It was a relief when I sensed Luke enter the hangar. Until I realized he had seen me.

I heard his voice, calling out in a mixture of confusion and fear, "Ben?" _Hush, son, just go to the ship,_ I prayed. Then I sensed him coming towards me, instead.

I risked a glance towards him, and there she was: Leia Organa. Daughter of Padme Amidala Naberrie and Anakin Skywalker, and also of Senator and Mrs. Organa. _He found her. She's safe. Thank you, thank you, thank you._ I smiled a little bit at the sight of both of them, brother and sister, together at last.

Vader must have sensed my joy, because suddenly his anger was tinged with curiosity. _DON'T LOOK AT THEM,_ I wanted to scream. _YOU DON'T GET TO SEE THEM. LOOK AT ME._ I tried to press the message through the Force, _LOOK AT ME._

I switched off my lightsaber. In Vader's state of anger and hatred, that earned me his full attention. It only took a split second to commune with the living Force; I barely even felt the blade carve through my flesh.

* * *

This is how it feels, to leave your body and enter the living Force: Everything is happening at once and you can see it all.

Memories whip by, some my own, some I never knew before. Beru Lars tells a Stormtrooper, "My nephew's been gone for three standard weeks, visiting a girl," and her voice doesn't even tremble. My master chokes out the words, "Promise me," and I promise. Yoda asks me if I want to be a father and laughs when I say maybe I'm a crazy uncle instead. A senator kisses a knight in a cave, and that one kiss is enough to destroy worlds.

In a Death Star hangar, Luke shouts "no!" and starts a shootout with Stormtroopers. Vader kicks at my robes, looking for a body that isn't there. Han and Leia call for Luke, "come on!" Leia shouts, "Luke, it's too late!" Han has a fighter's instincts, he shouts, "Blast the door, kid!" Darth Vader comes towards his children and a door slams in his face. I try to call to my grief-stricken padawan, "Run, Luke, run!" Maybe he hears me or maybe he hears Leia, but it doesn't matter, he runs and they get on the ship and it gets away and Luke and Leia are safe. Oh, but for how long? Will it only be an hour? Will Vader find them? Will they fall? I have to go, I have to get back and protect them-

But Qui-Gon Jinn is with me and he says, "Rest, Obi-Wan, be at peace, you have fulfilled your destiny."

All is said.


End file.
